


Three Gunshots and Two Chemical Defects

by TheExplodingPen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide, heed the warnings, may be triggery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheExplodingPen/pseuds/TheExplodingPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he accidentally discovers that Mycroft has the audio recording from the rooftop, there is no question. He doesn't care that hearing Sherlock in his last moments is likely to give him nightmares later that night. He needs it. He needs to know what happened, because at least he'll have proof that Sherlock wasn't a fake. Even if he couldn't tell anyone, he'll have that proof to draw on to keep him going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Gunshots and Two Chemical Defects

It has been almost three years.

John has adjusted well, or so his therapist says. The nightmares have returned, doubled, in some cases, and his limp is bothering him again, but that isn't important. He has gone through the five stages of grief, and has accepted that Sherlock was dead. 

Except, he hasn't.

He keeps thinking he sees him, with that damnable coat collar turned up, on the street or in a pub or, once, in the doorway to his room, and the apparition had been so clear that he'd stumbled out of bed, just to make sure. He had dragged himself back a few minutes later, routinely ignoring the brutal sting of disappointment in his chest.

He would give anything to hear Sherlock's voice again. To return to 221B and see him playing his violin, his focus completely on the music and the movement of his body. To feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he followed the man on yet another ridiculous chase through London's back streets.

He would give anything to be able to say what he'd always meant to tell him.

*

When he accidentally discovers that Mycroft has the audio recording from the rooftop, there is no question. He doesn't care that hearing Sherlock in his last moments is likely to give him nightmares later that night. He needs it. He needs to know what happened, because at least he'll have proof that Sherlock wasn't a fake. Even if he couldn't tell anyone, he'll have that proof to draw on to keep him going.

_Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem. The final problem._

John's hand, the one that shakes now during his normal, daily activities, clenches into a fist at his side. If Mycroft notices, he doesn't say anything.

_Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it? It's just... All my life, I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you. And you know what? In the end, it was easy._

John's eyes close of their own accord, Moriarty's voice taking him back to memories he hates, and one or two he doesn't. The pool. The lasers. The way Sherlock's hands had fluttered around him for a moment after the bomb was off, checking to make sure he was okay.

_It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them. Ah well. Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?_

Oh. John's breath leaves him in a heavy sigh as he clutches at the edge of Mycroft's desk. He knew it. He'd known that Sherlock was real, that he'd been brilliant, all along. He digs his fingernails into the wood. 

_Richard Brooke._

And there was Sherlock's voice, deep and resonant, just like John remembers.

_Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do._

_Of course._

_Attaboy._

_Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach – the case that made my name._

The sound that comes out of John's mouth is halfway between a forced laugh and a choked sob. The smug bastard. Staring his worst enemy in the face, and he was still cocky as ever.

_Just tryin' to have some fun. Good. You got that too._

_Beats like digits. Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head – a few simply lines of computer code that can break into any system._

John lets Sherlock's voice wash over him, trying to satisfy the craving for the man that he knew he never will. It just isn't possible, no matter how many times he hears a recording or sees a picture. It will never be enough. But that doesn't mean he isn't going to try.

_I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy._

_Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty._

_No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy. This is too easy. There is no key, doofus!_

John flinches at the shout, his breath catching in his throat. 

_Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless. You don't really think a couple lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock._

_But the rhythm..._

_Partita number one. Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach._

_But then how did..._

_Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison? Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants._

John mutteres a curse under his breath, his eyes still closed. Damn Moriarty. Damn his games. Why couldn't he just leave Sherlock alone?

_I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness – you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it._

_Do it? Do – do what? Yes, of course. My suicide._

_Genius detective proved to be a fraud. I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love papers. Fairytales. And pretty Grimm ones too._

“Bastard.” John feels his stomach roil. Sherlock had never been a fraud. He'd never been fake, he'd always been real, and god, this shouldn't hurt this much.

_I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity._

_Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort. Go on. For me. Please?_

_You're insane._

_You're just getting that now? Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friend will die if you don't._

_John._

The gasp that leaves John's lips slices through his lungs and tears at his heart. His name. Sherlock had said his name. Moriarty had threatened Sherlock's friends, and he'd thought of John. He sucks in a deep, painful breath, his leg aching. He hears Mycroft move, and then next thing he knows, a chair is nudging at the backs of his knees, and he collapses into it, listening too carefully to be able to bother to thank him.

_Not just John. Everyone._

_Mrs. Hudson._

_Everyone._

_Lestrade._

_Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There's not stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die... unless..._

_Unless I kill myself. Complete your story._

“Christ, Sherlock.” John's voice is ragged with checked tears, hiding his face in his hands. 

_You've got to admit that's sexier._

_And I die in disgrace._

_Of course. That's the point of this. Oh. You've got an audience now. Off you pop. Go on. I told you how this ends. Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it._

_Would you give me... one moment, please; one moment of privacy? Please?_

_Of course._

John braces himself. Here it comes. The phone call. The sound of Sherlock's voice breaking. He squeezes his eyes shut, but that's not what he hears. Instead, he hears the sound of Sherlock's laugh. 

_What? What is it? What did I miss?_

_You're not going to do it. So the killers can be called off, then – there's a recall code or a word or a number. I don't have to die... if I've got you._

John's eyes fly open. He hates the hope that blossoms in his chest, because he knows how this ends. But he can't help but believe that Sherlock has this under control. He's so confident, so sure of himself... surely, he knew what he was doing.

_Oh! You think you can make me stop that order? You think you can make me do that?_

_Yes. So do you._

_Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to._

_Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you, prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you._

John can feel Mycroft tense behind him, and he wonders, briefly, what the man is thinking. If he feels guilty about what he did, or if he's detached himself from the situation.

_Nah. You talk big. Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels._

_Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them._

Sherlock would make a lovely angel. John hopes fervently that he is, that God, if there is one, realized just how good he was, just how much good he had done, and had given the detective a halo and a pair of wings and promised him that he would never fall again.

_No, you're not. I see you're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you. As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out. Well, good luck with that._

John’s head snaps up and he blinks rapidly, and then there's a sound of a gunshot, and he realizes that Moriarty has killed himself. He can't help it. He cries out, biting his lip almost immediately afterward. “Sherlock,” he says, under his breath, the single word sounding like a prayer.

_John._

Fuck. Oh, fuck. This is the call. John flashes back, and then he grips the wooden armrest of the seat hard enough to bruise the tips of his fingers. 

_Turn around and walk back the way you came now. Just do as I ask. Please. Stop there. Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop. I... I... I can't come down, so we'll... we'll just have to do it like this._

_An apology. It's all true. Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty. I'm a fake. The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes. Nobody could be that clever._

John feels a handful of tears leak from his eyes, and he drops his head, hoping irrationally that Sherlock would say something else. That he would admit that Moriarty had threatened him, held the lives of his friends above his head. Because he was all alone. Even then, even as he was about to die, he'd been protecting John. With his last breaths, he'd been ensuring that John would live.

_I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick. No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me? This phone call – it's... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?_

“Oh, God.” John clutches at his knees, drawing them up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. “Sherlock, God, please, don't say it, for God's sake, I'm begging you.”

_Goodbye, John._

*

His voice is hoarse from screaming. Fifteen seconds into the sound, Mycroft had left, and he had stayed alone in the man's office for two hours, curled up in the overstuffed chair as Sherlock's final words played over and over in his head. 

_Goodbye, John._

*

He takes a cab home, politely turning down Mycroft's offer of a car. He still won't look the man in the eyes, and he knows he never will. Not after what he did to assist in Sherlock's death.

His motions are easy when he gets home. The flat, even after all this time, is still unfamiliar, nowhere near as much of a home as 221B was. He still knows where the important things are, though. The skull is on the mantle place, the hat is hanging on the back of the door, and the gun is in his bedside drawer.

He's lost count of the times that he's taken it out and pressed the cold barrel against his temple, wishing he had the wherewithal to pull the trigger. He doesn't think that will be a problem anymore. He knows the whole story now. He knows that Sherlock was truly the greatest man he had ever met, that he was, without a doubt, his best friend, and that he died to keep those few he cared about safe. 

John's tried. He's tried living without him, he really has. He's even succeeded, a bit. But the hell on Earth that is his life isn't living. Not really. It's surviving, and John thinks he's had quite enough of that now.

He composes a text message to an old number, almost laughing at the sentimentality. Sherlock would scoff. Dead men don't get texts, John. But, God, what John would give to hear him say that. There's no sound of Sherlock's voice, though, so John sends the text.

_You'd think this was ridiculous. Or, rather, you'd say it was ridiculous. You'd go one about sentiment being a chemical defect, and yet here we are. I'm alive because you were sentimental, Sherlock. I've lived these years because of you, and I can do nothing but thank you for caring that much. I just can't do it anymore. There are so many things I never told you, things that I can't even write here, because if I do, I won't carry through. But I can tell you this. I love you. Not loved, love. I know you're out there somewhere, because a soul like yours can't just stop existing. And I'm going to find you. You understand, don't you? I can't do this, here, without you. You fixed the things that were broken in me, and without you, they've broken again. You gave me the best years of my life. I hope, now, that I can give you eternity. -JW_

*

Sherlock's phone buzzes with a text message while he's on the stairs, and that's why he doesn't answer it. It doesn't matter who it is. He's back. He's finally home, and no one is more important than John. They can wait until he's given the news to his best friend.

The sound of the gunshot hits him like a kick to the ribs. 

He breaks into a run, and then he's in the doorway, and he's not breathing. His legs give out, and he's touching John's warm body, long fingers fluttering as he tries to find a pulse that doesn't exist. Then they clench in John's jumper, and pale, shaky fingers take his phone out of his pocket.

He reads the message, and then slowly sets his phone down. The kiss he presses to John's forehead is soft, without any pressure, just a caress of breath and heat. 

*

The police arrive exactly four minutes after the second gunshot.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at like two a.m. because I was in a bad mood and needed to vent with some sad johnlock. I'm so sorry.


End file.
